


Decreed by Heaven

by Mossy_Moondark



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: F/M, NC17, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24954403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossy_Moondark/pseuds/Mossy_Moondark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Decreed by Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elpollodiablo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elpollodiablo/gifts).



Only after the boat pulled away from shore, after she could no longer see her mother standing straight-backed and proud, did Iphigenia allow herself to feel the pounding of her heart. 

Iphigenia was grateful to step into the cloth enclosure on board the boat. Relief from the bright sun overhead was instant, even though the cloth kept back some of the offshore breeze. It wasn't particularly spacious, only room enough for maybe 5 people if they were friendly. Even so, it seemed a tight space with only her and Desma within. Besides, she had fully expected to share the open deck with her father the King, the priest, and whomever her father the King deemed appropriate for the journey.

Of course, she could still hear what everyone said, Funny, she would actually enjoy the day if wasn't going to Troy.

But what was done was done. She would marry and be a wife with all that entailed. Would she have preferred to remain at home, yes. But she was her mother's daughter, strong. She would make a life for herself no matter where she was sent.

Golden Achilles had been so confused, his gaze flicking from the her mother the Queen to herself. He had finally excused himself on some pretext, Iphigenia could no longer even remember what it was. What struck her most was the King had ordered her taken to the boat post-haste, without even a farewell meal with her mother.

Desma was already on board with Iphigenia's few things; a bag of sandals and gold fibulae, black kohl and a little pot of rouge, a box of rings, necklaces and earrings, a spare chiton.

For her part, Iphigenia did as she was told. In the presence of her father the King she was quiet, and obedient, a will o' the wisp undeserving of his attention. That she had it now made her wary.

"Miss - "

Iphigenia took the offered bowl of dates stuffed nuts and hard cheese, made sure to eat at least one while Desma watched. Desma, who had replaced Chloris, her birth-friend of nineteen years. Desma, whom she did not trust. Iphigenia was sure Desma was only there to keep her in line, and she though she desperately wished Chloris were on the boat with her, the truth that she had to face was that she was on her own, and would be for a long time. 

"More, miss," said Desma, holding out a glass honeyed pomegranate water, "You must keep your strength up for the wedding."

"Hmm," murmured Iphigenia. 

"You must be grateful to marry such a man," said Desma, clasping her hands together. "Achilles the Warrior!"

Yes, Achilles the warrior, what grace was there in marrying a warrior? What pride did it bring her? Iphigenia would be happier marrying a philosopher, or a poet, not that that would ever be allowed. Pray Orestes become a man sooner than later, and then she could just...fade into obscurity.

Soon after the boat pulled away form shore, the wind died. There was a great exhultation amongst the crew, as if this was only to be expected and now they would actually have to work. There was a shout from belowdecks and then the slow, steady beat of a drum.

~*~

Iphigenia danced. 

Knotting both sides of her chiton at her hips so that the hem was high, she practiced hip bumps and flicks for the Muses, body rolls for the Charites and snake arms for Hekate. She stamped her foot to the beat, hands above her head, moved to the music only she could hear, all in honor of Hekate and the Charites and the Muses.

So lost was she that it took a moment for her to recognize the King staring at her, holding back the curtain in one hand. She faltered, stopped, bowed.

Agamemnon took one step, two, one more. His slave Kastor hovered behind him with a folding chair of wood and leather. Agamemnon sat and stared at her, waved one hand. "Continue."

She didn't want to. He was her father, a man she had met a handful of times in her life. He was tall, broad, and tanned. He wore a soldier's chiton, belted at the waist with a bit of plain rope and his beard and hair were both neatly oiled. 

And when Iphigenia met his gaze, she felt a frisson of fear, for his eyes were black and depthless and cold. She quickly glanced back down. 

"Keep dancing," he commanded, managing to sound both bored and irritated at the same time.

Iphigenia went through the motions, but her heart was no longer interested. He frightened her, Agamemnon the King. Cassandra the Oracle, brought home by the King, watched Iphigenia the same way, like a snake watched prey, even down to the same head movement. 

The priest Agamemnon had brought on board slipped in to the enclosure, holding a small, steep-sided clay bowl in one hand. He glanced at Iphigenia, then scooted around Kaestor to show the King what the bowl contained. The King raised an eyebrow, looked at Iphigenia from under his eyelashes, nodded. The priest straightened and went around Kastor once again. As he passed Iphigenia he glanced in her direction with a smirk.

Iphigenia undid the knots of her chiton, allowing it to drop to the tops of her feet. It wasn't proper for her to show so much skin in front of strangers, especially the priest. She was used to men looking at her, but this was different. At home, servants and slaves surrounded her at all times, she feared no one'sstare.

Agamemnon stood and approached her, standing close enough for her to smell the wine on his breath. "Yorgos! Timo! Nestor!" 

The enclosure was abruptly full of men, all too close. Iphigenia kept her gaze firmly on the deck. Agamemnon's feet were clean, the nails trimmed. Then he put his fingers to her chin and forced her head, although not her gaze, up.

"Your time has come," he said. "Your mother's kept you from me for long enough."

At that, she finally looked at him, and to her horror, the lust in his eyes was clear. He cupped her cheek, and then he stroked her neck, trailed his fingers across her collarbone. Her mouth went dry when the corner of his mouth curled up. She couldn't help it; she tried to knock his hand away.

He grabbed her by the throat with his other hand, forcing her onto her toes. "No, you don't," he sneered when she tried to pull his hand away with both of hers. Her strength was no match, no match at all.

Gasping for air, she clung to his arm, trying to relieve the pressure and gain her balance. Agamemnon's eyes brightened as she struggled, and he took the opportunity to roughly cup and squeeze her breasts.

Her stomach soured. Her pulse rushing in her ears, Iphigenia kicked out, struck the King somewhere on his leg. 

He grinned. "Kick all you can, I'll still take what I want."

It was almost as if she needed his permission; hanging on to his arm, she kicked and wriggled and nothing made a difference, he still kept her at arm's length. Agamemnon abruptly released her, shoving her away from him. She was caught by the soldiers behind her and held firm.

All Iphigenia could do was let her head loll on her shoulders and sob for breath. She sagged against her captors and watched the King. To her surprise, he stepped back and sat down again. He was a big man, dwarfing the chair. In other circumstances she might find the contrast between dark, tanned skin against the red of a chiton delightful, especially on a man who was young and unsullied by war. But this, as he spread his legs wide to show her the bulge between his thighs? 

No. 

Looking at the soldiers, Agamemnon motioned towards her. "No bruises."

For a second, Iphigenia thought she had misunderstood. Then one of them huffed a laugh. 

At first Iphigenia closed her eyes, shamed that strange men were touching her. They ran their hands over her breasts, over her belly, over her ass, between her legs. All too soon she realized that keeping her eyes closed meant she felt the touching all the more. She jerked back as one of the soldiers pinched her nipple hard. He did it again and Iphigenia abruptly realized she was starting to feel funny below. 

"No, don't, stop!" she cried, trying to twist away. 

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw her father looking at her, his hand under the skirt of his chiton, lazily fisting himself. Terror struck her then and she fought with renewed vigor, much to the amusement of the soldiers holding her.

One of them tore the chiton from her shoulders, the fibula dropping to the deck with a high clink. The light linen fell to her feet and she flushed hot at being so uncovered in front of her father.

Fingers slipped between her legs and then a mouth descended upon her own. She turned her head away, only to be met by another mouth.

"She's wet!" Someone said triumphantly. "You were right, my king!"

"Of course," drawled Agamemnon.

"You can't do this!" Iphigenia said loudly, catching only a glimpse of Agamemnon as she turned her head to and fro to escape the kisses she in no way wanted. "I'm to marry Achilles!"

Agamemnon laughed. "Timo, put your tongue to work. Nestor, you too, and Yorgos, let her talk. If she can."

The shorter of the two dark haired soldiers dropped to his knees and forced her legs apart, shuffling between them so quickly she couldn't close them again. Her balance was off, but Nestor and Yorgos kept her upright.

Iphigenia sucked in a surprised breath at something warm-cool and stiff but soft touched her down below. The comments made to her by men suddenly made sense; how they would kiss her, how sweet she would taste, how they would make her scream and what they would do after. She had even heard slaves giggle about the 'secret kiss' before they saw her and went silent, bowing in pseudo respect. Iphigenia was no fool. She knew what went on between men and women, even if she hadn't directly experienced it herself. As much as she wanted to deny what was happening, there was no ignoring the eagerness of the soldiers as they touched her, nor how aroused she was becoming. She had to stop it, she had to make it stop. "I'll scream, I'll tell everyone what you did to me, the King, my own father!"

Agamemnon's eyes widened. "Desma!"

The soldier to her left began sucking on her neck; there was a little stubble on his chin. Iphigenia squeaked. Not much of a noise, but enough to make the one still behind her chuckle. He bumped her ass with his hips - he was stiff. Surely Agamemnon would not allow his soldier to defile her any more than they already had!

Desma swept in through the curtains like a ghost, silent.

"Desma!" cried Iphigenia, desperate for someone to rescue her. 

Yet Desma, far from rushing to Iphigenia's side, instead only glanced at her from the corner of her eye. Iphigenia immediately understood what was happening. Desma was not hers, nor what she ever intended to be. There would be neither help nor understanding from her.

"My King, said Desma, clasping her hands together.

Agamemnon pulled his chiton to his waist. "Suck."

"My King," repeated Desma. She gracefully slipped to her hands and knees and crawled - _crawled_ \- to him, somehow managing not to pull on her chiton in the process. She stopped between Agamenon's legs and then, as far as Iphigenia could tell, took his prick into her mouth. His eyes went half-lidded with pleasure, yet he didn't lose focus on her. He pointed and his soldiers went to work.

Despite it all, Iphigenia found herself dry mouthed and panting. Timo's mouth on her - she had never felt anything like it and Aphrodite help her, it was so very good. She wanted to open her legs as wide as possible, she wanted to moan with the sensation from it. Not only that, her nipples stood proud and one soldier was sucking on them, and even the slightest wind through the curtains sent shivers down her spine.

The final burst of pleasure was awful. She immediately began to cry, so humiliated was she. The men laughed. Even Desma's shoulders shook, and that dried Iphigenia's tears at once. Desma, she vowed, would _pay_.

Timo stood up and Iphigenia rocked forward onto shaky legs. she wanted to throw herself into the ocean and wipe their touch from her skin. She was willing to risk Poseidon's grasp to be clean, even if only for a moment before drowning.

Lost in thought, it took Iphigenia a moment to understand what she was seeing, for Timo was stripping off his chiton. He was as tan as Agamemnon, though far slighter in build. He was rampant, too.

"What are you doing?" asked Iphigenia, jerking back and hating how terrified she sounded. Not that she didn't know exactly what was going to happen to her. 

Yorgos giggled, the high pitch incongruous to his height and beauty. "I love it when there's a little life left in 'em."

"Fuck off," said Timo, stepping on the tops of Iphigenia's feet. He was wearing hob-nailed sandals and the pain was brutal. He pushed her breasts together. "You prefer 'em when they're dead."

"Dead drunk," returned Yorgos, but his grin belied the truth, and Iphigenia added it to the catalog of horror.

"Here we go," Nestor murmured into her ear. "Now just relax and things will go easy for you."

"Why are you always so nice?" asked Yorgos, squeezing Iphigenia's throat hard enough that she couldn't breathe at all. "She's just a cunt, there's always another one to fuck."

"Yorgos - " Timo warned softly.

Yorgos snorted. "She's the King's cunt, but a cunt nonetheless."

"Shut the hell up," said Nestor, his voice quiet but firm. "Bruise her and I'll skin you alive myself, understand?"

Iphigenia gasped for breath, grateful that Nestor, at least, was interested in keeping her unscathed. Not unscarred, of course, because that wasn't the way of men.

"Fine," spat Yorgos. He was handsome, yet the way his lips thinned, the set of his eyebrows - cruelty was inherent in him. He stepped behind Iphigenia, much to her relief. 

Fabric ripped and then Iphigenia's hands were bound tightly behind her back. She was felt up from behind, several fingers inserted into her again. The breath left her in a punch as she went forward to escape the intrusion. 

"I'm going first," said Yorgos, pulling Iphigenia back by her hips. 

The position was awkward: hands behind her back, off balance with Timo on her feet. She gasped as a cool bluntness touched her below. How much was it going to hurt?

"Look at those pretty lips opening up for me, yeah!"

There was a a curious sense of fullness as Yorgos pressed forward, and stretching, and there was the pain. It wasn't too bad, and from hearing the slaves talk she knew it would only be for this first time, and in a way she was grateful. Now she knew what to expect. Maybe that was why her mother the Queen kept lovers.

Yorgos's released her hair and she lost her balance, falling towards Timo. Instead of bumping into him, he stepped back and she folded over, only Yorgos's grip on her hips kept her from landing on her face. Iphigenia discovered the change in position deepened the penetration and oh - oh this was what she was made for.

Iphigenia was pulled back by her wrists, and then all she could do was gasp and pant from the stretch in her shoulders. 

"Look," grunted Yorgos. "She loves it!"

Maybe she would if it was someone she wanted to be with; Golden Achilles, for example.

She swallowed and swallowed again. Yorgos started slamming into her fast and hard. She could feel herself responding, getting wetter, starting to want the pleasure slowly building in her belly. Thankfully there was no chance it was going to happen again. Iphigenia relaxed a a little, sure she wasn't going to humiliate herself again.

"Look at him go, like a rabbit," commented Timo.

Nestor laughed. "You've never seen him before?"

"I fuck like this the first time,' muttered Yorgos breathlessly. "I can go all night, doesn't matter how often."

"Are you a goat? Better raise a glass to Pan!" asked Timo, chuckling. 

"I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come!" Yorgos jerked her back against his hips once, twice, then stilled.

"You're too fast," said Timo. "But at least I can have her now."

Nestor elbowed him, then pinched Iphigenia's nipple hard. "You'll have to wait, I'm next."

"Fuck off," replied Timo, scowling.

"I don't care which one of you goes next, I'm having her again afterward," said Yorgos, pulling out of Iphigenia before slapping her ass. It stung. 

Nestor and Timo glanced at one another, and by their raised eyebrows, Iphigenia realized that maybe Yorgos's boasts were actually less impressive than they sounded. 

Nestor took his turn next; again, Iphigenia was lead to the edge, but not over. It was the same with Timo. When they were done, she stood between them, wobbly and stunned from what happened and how she felt. She wanted relief, yet not by them. 

"Bring her here," commanded Agamemnon, pushing Desma off. 

Iphigenia was led to the chair and then pushed down onto the floor. She wasn't yet done; she tried scrambling to the side, but was pulled back by Yorgos, who grabbed her wrists and forced her arms above her head. Too busy trying to fight him, she lost track of here her father the King and what he was doing. 

"Enough."

Iphigenia shrank against the deck. At her feet stood the King. He was fully naked and looking at her with his upper lip curled in disgust. 

"Bitch."

She shook her head. He sneered, as did Desma, who stood to the side, smirking at Iphigenia.

"Timo, Nestor, take Desma."

Desma twitched hard, her eyes wide. "My king?"

He jerked his head in Desma's direction without looking at her.

"My King, no - "

Agamemnon turned and casually backhanded her. Blood sprayed across the white curtain as Desma spun in place before dropping to the deck. 

"Fuck yeah," murmured Yorgos, his hands tightening on Iphigenia's wrists.

Stunned, she froze, no longer fighting against him. Agamemnon looked at her and grinned, his teeth bright against the dark tan of his face. He fondled himself, making his prick bounce. It was thickly veined and leaned to the left with a large dark purple head.

Behind the King, Desma was still unconscious. When Nestor sat her up, Iphigenia saw that her chest was covered with blood. Between the two soldiers, they managed to get Desma on her knees and elbows. She lay there, so still that Iphigenia wondered if Agamemnon hadn't actually broken her neck. As Nestor reached down, Iphigenia lost sight of of Desma, for Agamemnon blocked her view.

"Your mother kept you away from me, daughter, for good reason," he said, roughly shoving her knees apart. "Was she good, Yorgos?"

"Tight," said Yorgos. "Tight like you wouldn't believe. And so fucking wet."

"Beauty, tits, and ass," said Agamemnon, crouching to palm Iphigenia's breasts roughly. "What more can a man ask for."

"A bit of fight," answered Yorgos, and although she didn't dare look at him, Iphigenia could tell he was smiling and almost encouraging her to make him hit her, too.

Agamemnon sat back on his heels and stared at Iphigenia. "I'm going to fuck you raw, and when I'm done, I'm going to give you to these three, and when they're done, the priest, and after that, every slave on board is going to have his turn."

Iphigenia felt tears well up and closed her eyes, turning away.

Someone gripped her chin and forced her head back. "Open your fucking eyes before I pluck them out."

As if she wasn't frightened enough.

He started playing with her pussy lips, stroking them, spreading them wide, sticking his fingers inside. And then, then he touched the center of her pleasure, circling until she was biting her lips from the sensation. 

Suddenly his fingers were replaced by something far larger and Iphigenia shrieked as he slammed in. He was thick and long and and pulled out almost immediately to slam back in. The Gods were good; almost immediately the pain eased. She could feel herself getting slicker and then, when he lay fully atop her, holding her where he wanted with hands firmly around her shoulders, all of her attention was drawn to one spot of pleasure that spiked through her every time he thrust. Wide-eyed and not wanting to show what was happening to her, Iphigenia looked away as best she was able. This laid her neck wide open and he mouthed all over it, arousing her even more. 

"She's gonna come, my King!" said Yorgos, breathlessly.

It was true. The tension in was rising, centered in her pelvis and stretching out to her toes, her finger tips. She was trembling now, her legs shaking as the King increased his speed. He was grunting with every push and Gods help her, his excitement was exciting for her, too.

The pleasure erupted out of her in a low moan she couldn't have stopped even if her mouth was bound with cloth. Agamemnon redoubled his efforts and that was it, she was gone. She came, wailing loudly despite knowing everyone would hear her. 

"Whore - " growled the King. "My daugh-ter, the who-ore - "

Utterly spent, Iphigenia was unprepared for the feeling to start almost immediately between her legs again. "No - no, I can't - "

Agamemnon slowed, but only to sit back on his heels once more. "See what a whore you are?"

Yorgos switched to a one handed grip so he could force her head up. The view was astonishing: Agamemnon's cock moving in and out of her. And when he put his thumb just above where they were joined, Iphigenia couldn't remain still. She had to come again - she had to! She rocked her hips up and down desperately against the pressure until she was swamped by more pleasure, so much so her eyes rolled in her head. After, she went limp, unable to deny the physical pleasure.

Time became hazy. Later on, when she was at the temple, she would dream of the hours spent aboard the boat. Sometimes it was merely a shift in the breeze that brought her back, the salt tang of sun on seawater, the way the afternoon light fell through the curtains, the ghost of a hand at her waist. For all that she told herself she was disgusted and filled with hatred for what was done to her, in the recesses of her mind, the remembered pleasure was enough to drive her fingers between her legs to try and recapture the moments. They came to her in the night, Yorgos and Timo and Nestor, smiling and laughing, handling her as if she were no more than a vessel to be filled with over and over. Her father, taking her again and again and again, fucking her like an animal in the field, even letting the priest take her at the bow of the ship so everyone could see. How they had howled in lust, openly sowing their seed onto the lower deck in disgusting sprays of manhood.

And even thinking of Desma's debasement by the three was enough to make her knees weaken. Agamemnon had forced her to watch, sitting in his lap but facing away, her hands still tied behind her back. The folding chair they sat upon had creaked ominously every time Agamemnon pulled her down. Nonetheless she was distracted by Desma's screams as she was topped by man after man, for he had invited the crew to take part. 

"Shall I punish her more for you?" Agamemnon whispered at one point, his breath hot against her neck, shifting his hips up and down, cock hard inside of her. He put the hand on her hip even lower and began to rub. "I'll sacrifice her right here and now for Aphrodite, hmm? Have her raped to death…that's what you want, yes? For all the things she's done to you?" 

If Iphigenia were at home, she would of course have said no. Let Desma's crime against her be handled by others. She could be banished, or turned to farm work…but this revenge? _"Yes!_ " she cried as she came. 

"He's a man like any other," her mother had said on the dock, cupping Iphigenia's cheek gently, the most tender look in her eyes. "He's took me unwilling from my home, he takes women like a bird takes seeds, splitting them open and discarding the shell without regard. Now, my daughter, I needs must send you to Troy with him."

Iphigenia had understood the danger completely. Her father the King was a man of reputation.

"I will be Medea's sister should you not arrive. I shall be Atropos, I shall be - "

"No!" Iphigenia hugged her tightly, relishing the familar warmth and scent of her body. "Become not a harpuiai. I'll survive, like you, for am I not my mother's daughter?"

Clytemnestra had pulled back, her dark blue eyes sharp as she stared at Iphigenia. Finally she smiled, nodding. "What happens to a woman is merely a story, not the story itself."

Yes, merely a story. She was strong, like her mother, like Atalanta, like Themis, like Nike, like great Hekate herself. She had survived her father - although he had not survived her mother - and continued to live without guilt for what had happened to her. 

On the wide floor of the temple, the sweet spicy smoke of incense wafting around her, the candles dancing in the night-time breeze, Iphigenia pulled the skirt of her chiton up through the string of mirrors and binti bells around her hips, then bowed to the great goddess before her. A drum began to beat and she danced, danced, danced.


End file.
